Letter from a Gravedigger

When I saw you for the first time, I thought you were dead. Perhaps your skeletal figure had something to do with it. The dark hollows beneath your eyes didn’t help either, nor did your tangled black hair.

Truth be told, I was frightened. I thought the dead had finally come looking for me. I mean, it’s not every night you see a woman wandering so calmly through a cemetery—especially at this hour. There was no way you could have escaped my attention.

Unfortunately, that night I was too much of a coward to approach you. Besides, I wasn’t even sure you were alive.

After some time, I saw you again. Fortunately, this time it was daylight. Forgive me for not speaking to you then; I was waiting for you to finish crying. I had never seen a woman cry so much. In fact, I had never seen anyone cry like that. Congratulations—you hold the cemetery’s record.

When you left, curiosity got the better of me. Who were you mourning so deeply? I found myself peering at the grave. The soil was still damp from your tears. It seems you are a mother… well, it seems you were.

It’s a pity. You would have made a good mother.

Today your husband came. He didn’t cry. He kicked the dirt beneath his feet, spat on the ground, and left as quickly as he arrived. Your mother passed by as well—or at least that’s who she said she was. Not that I’m a gossip, but I told her what had happened before.

Turns out you weren’t such a good mother after all.

Putting that aside, when it came time for me to bury you, I couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps no one saw me… or perhaps no one cared.

It’s curious: you looked more alive in the coffin than you ever did in life…

…"

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